


A Fine-Edged Romance

by Starlingthefool



Series: Devil You Know [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Kink Meme, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-19
Updated: 2010-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've nothing to fear from you," Holmes said.<br/>"No," Watson replied, dropping the bloody knife on the table. "You never did."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine-Edged Romance

**Author's Note:**

> This is the porny creepy sequel to "Deal With the Devil".

The room was perfect. Thick walls, earthen floor, chilly, dark. There were few houses nearby. It was close to the river, for easy disposal of the... waste. It wasn't even too far out of the way.

He couldn't have imagined a better room – he refused to indulge Holmes in calling it a lair – for his work. "It's brilliant," he said. "How did you find it, Holmes?"

The detective was standing near the doorway, smoking his pipe. "In connection to a case."

Watson turned to look at him. "What kind of case?"

"Kidnapping, in fact. This was where the victim was kept, for a short while. The perpetrator's estate sold it off, afterwards. It's now owned by an industrialist named Jeremiah Sherwood."

"And where is he?"

Holmes took a long pull off his pipe. "On paper, he's in Manchester. In reality, he resides here." He tapped his forehead.

Watson smiled. "You are too generous. And frighteningly devious, at times."

Holmes shrugged, but Watson suspected that he was pleased by the compliment.

***

Their relationship was not exactly as he remembered. There were no more lies, no deceptions. He had told Holmes everything, had stood before him with his dark secrets laid bare. And Holmes had not turned away in horror and revulsion this time. He'd just given him the most peculiar, considering glance, and then pushed a slip of paper across the table of their sitting room. There'd been a name on it.

"Is this...?"

"Your next victim. A brute. A predator."

He'd been aware of Holmes' sharp scrutiny as he'd reread the name.

"Where can I find him?" Watson had asked.

"Whitechapel," Holmes had replied. Watson remembered again his words on that bench in Chicago: _I am the better marksman._ They'd been back in London for a week, and yet Holmes was already offering him a target. He felt strangely moved.

"Holmes, I-"

"I'll be going with you. I thought we'd leave for Whitechapel after dinner. I booked us a table at the Royale."

If Watson were more given to whimsy, he would wonder if Holmes were trying to court him.

 

It was good to be back in London, with all its attractive vices and petty villains. Not that he had always minded traveling; Amsterdam had been quite pleasant, and Paris, New York, and Chicago had had plenty to offer a man of his tastes. And yet, there was really nothing like tracking down a multiple rapist in the twisted streets of Whitechapel. It was even better for the fact of Holmes' body at his side, matching his strides, enthralled by the chase. It was just like old times.

Only it _was_ different. There was a new kind of tension between him and Holmes, taut as the strings on Holmes' violin. It was subtle, showing itself in the smallest ways: a shared glance, a casual brush of shoulders while they were walking. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, just... new.

He had felt lost in the vast continent of America, lonely; the vast stretch of the prairie and hills between New York and Chicago had unnerved him. Watson had stuck close to the centre of Chicago, unwilling to go out into even the suburbs, keeping the tall buildings between him and that unsettling horizon.

He and Holmes slipped into an alley so escape their target's notice. Watson could smell Holmes' cologne and sweat, the garbage, mud, and horse feces that lay between the tiles. He could feel the heat of Holmes' skin even through his coat, as the man leaned against the brick wall next to him. Here in London, with Holmes, Watson felt that he finally had regained his bearings.

***

In some people, being a predator fine-tuned their instincts, made them aware others like them; that had certainly been Watson's experience. He could usually spot another devil in a man's clothing from across the street.

In others, their natures made them practically blind to anything but the most overt attempts against them. They were too comfortable in their own power.

Evan Crombie was one of the latter, visiting the same pub night after night, always at the same time. He greeted Holmes's approach with only the smallest amount of caution, and gladly accepted the beer bought for him.

Watson watched from the other side of the bar. He felt nervous. He had never before used this kind of deception. Holmes had been correct in telling him, numerous times, that he had no talent for disguises. He preferred to stalk his prey, take them completely unawares. But Holmes had offered himself to this cause – the good cause of ridding London of men like Crombie – and Watson had taken him up on it. He was willing to give it a go, and he couldn't deny the thrill of having someone witness him at his true calling.

And if he were being honest, he had to admit that the idea of sharing such an intimate thing as murder with another person – with _Holmes_ – made him shiver.

Crombie left, his arm linked companionably in Holmes'. After a moment, Watson followed them out into the night.

 

"Is that my cravat?" Holmes asked, stowing the bottle of ether back in his pocket.

"It was mine first," Watson said, pulling it away from Crombie's neck. He looked at the wrinkled strip of silk in his hands, then held it out. "I suppose you can have it if you want. The weave is warped now," he said, fully expecting Holmes to back off. Instead, the other man pulled it slowly out of Watson's fingers and wound the cravat loosely around his neck. Watson found his eyes drawn to the drape of the cloth, the pulse point against which it rested.

"So," Holmes said. "Back to the lair?"

Watson sighed, looking down at the unconscious rapist again. "I do wish you wouldn't call it that..."

 

Holmes left him after they carried Crombie back to the empty warehouse, citing the late hour. Watson bade him good night, watched him go, and didn't acknowledge his own disappointment.

"It's probably better this way," he told Crombie, who was gagged, naturally, and couldn't answer. "If he had stayed, this might have been over before it really began. Now, we can take our time."

It took hours for either of them to find any kind of release.

***

Crombie died with his eyes wide and staring, the bloodied gag in his mouth, Watson's gore-slicked hand wrapped around his throat. He thought of the cravat wound around Holmes' pale neck as Crombie convulsed a final time, and realized that he was hard and erect, rubbing himself along the hard edge of the table.

He released Crombie's neck, letting the dead weight of the man's head crash back onto the table. He undid the butcher's apron he's wearing, tossing it on the floor, and took a moment to collect his senses. This was not the first time this had happened during a kill. It wasn't even the first time he had become aroused by thoughts of his flatmate and partner. It was the first time that the two elements have come together, however. He surveyed his hands, slick and red. He imagined touching Holmes with his hands as they were. He imagined Holmes liking it.

Impossible.

He realized he heard footsteps, echoing from beyond the circle of light that his lamps created. Instincts taking over, he grabbed one of the knives off the table and turned to face the intruder.

Holmes stepped into the circle of light. He was dressed in the same workman's garb that he wore when they took Crombie. His lips were parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He stared at Watson with an emotion Watson was at a loss to place. Holmes stepped forward, coming closer, until he was within reach of Watson's arms.

Desire, Watson realized. That was the emotion on Holmes face. Undisguised wanting. Watson wondered if he was dreaming, hallucinating.

"I hope you don't mind," Holmes said. "I wanted to see you work. But I didn't want you to feel..." His eyes drifted down to the bulge in Watson's trousers. "...Pressured. To perform for me."

He was still wearing the cravat draped over his neck.

"And?" Watson says. He crossed his arms, realizing, in doing so, that he was still holding a knife. He relished Holmes' gaze as it traveled over his body again. He imagined what Holmes could see: blood from the tips of his fingers to the wrists, splashes of it on his chest and neck, sweat on his brow, hair mussed, pants tight over his hardened cock.

"You were magnificent," Holmes said.

Watson reached for him, dropping the knife on the table next to Crombie's corpse. He left bloody stains on Holmes neck as he grabbed the cravat and tugged the other man towards him. They collided together, mouths crashing against each other. Watson left bloody, grasping handprints against his bare skin. Holmes' hands were in constant motion: tugging at his shirt, scratching down his back, grabbing his hips, fisting in Watson's hair.

Holmes' usual grace was tinged with violence. He moved like a feral animal, writhing, biting, tasting, tearing open Watson's shirt. His eyes rolled in their sockets, he cursed in a hoarse growl. He went to his knees in front of Watson, undoing his flies and pulling his cock out, sucking him off with as much skill and enthusiasm as any woman Watson had been with.

So, Watson thought, Holmes had had his own secret vices. He gripped Holmes' black hair with one hand, fighting the desperate urge to thrust deeper into Holmes' throat. Strands stuck to the tacky, drying blood on his fingers.

Holmes' hands went around to his backside, pushing up Watson's shirt to get at his backside. He raked his fingers down Watson's thighs, the blunt nails leaving long red marks. Watson could feel himself rapidly losing control, degenerating into a mindless, wanton, greedy thing. As always, it terrified him; sex tore away all his control, ripped away the calm and kind facade; it showed his ragged, monstrous soul to whoever might be there to see it.

One of those hands – those clever, beautiful hands about which he had written so much – snaked further back, stroking his ass and perineum, pressing, probing inward. Watson lost whatever vestiges of self-control he'd had, thrusting into Holmes' mouth, guttural noises ripping from his throat. There was blood and spit running down the Holmes' chin. Watson remembered what they were doing and _where_, that there was still a corpse in the room, and then the next second forgot. Three years, he'd been alone. Three years, three lonely years of nothing but death and momentary diversions. Three months ago, he'd thought he would eventually end up either at the gallows or the asylum, and then Holmes had walked back into his life, offered him a third option. It was far more than he deserved, surely.

"Holmes–" Watson choked out, feeling his orgasm building at the base of stomach. Holmes clutched at his thigh again, and made some noise of assent, or maybe encouragement. Watson bit down on the knuckle of his left hand, muffling his cries, and came hard in Holmes' mouth.

Holmes kept his mouth on Watson's cock, licking away the last drops of semen with an obscenely long tongue and swallowing them.

Watson's knees buckled. As he put a hand on the table to steady himself, he touched something: the handle of the knife, tacky with drying blood. He looked down and saw Holmes watching him, watching his hand with wide, black pupils.

Watson picked up the knife, holding it loosely in his fist. He was still breathing hard as he said, "Are you sure... this is what you want?"

Holmes drew back, slowly, eyes never leaving the blade of the knife. He nodded. "It is."

Watson, crouching, drew the tip of the blade down Holmes' cheek, a steel caress. Holmes shuddered, but did not look away. There was no fear in his eyes.

"I'm a monster, Holmes. Make no mistake."

"I never make mistakes."

Watson drew his finger down Holmes' cheek, in the same line the knife had taken a moment before. "Arrogant. And erroneous."

Holmes blew an impatient breath out his cheeks. "Regardless, this is not a mistake. You would never hurt me."

"Not unless you wanted me to," Watson said, voice low. Holmes' eyes closed briefly, and his lips parted in a brief smirk.

"Even then. I've nothing to fear from you."

Watson dropped the knife back on the table. "No. You never did."

The affection in Holmes' eyes was offset by the bloody smudges still on his face. "My dear Watson," he said, and reached out for him. Watson took him by his bloodied hand and kissed him.


End file.
